


The Gift of Communication

by BatmanAndBocchan



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: I also hadn't slept in like 30 hours so there's that too, I only proofread it one time so hopefully there is no typos, criticism is appreciated, feel free to analyze it if you want, it is just Will thinking to himself mostly, my first fanfic thingy, not sure if anyone else does that too, not sure what to put for the tags, that's the kind of thing I do when I read fanfics, the title sucks but whatever, the whole thing is a metaphor, you can comment if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatmanAndBocchan/pseuds/BatmanAndBocchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obsessing over a pen Grell gave him forever ago just seems like a very Will thing to do. So that's what this is. (AKA Will has a serious oral fixation and Grell obsession.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift of Communication

**Author's Note:**

> It's not the greatest I know, but I tried. I want to make a series exploring their relationship. This is just like an intro work. If I do make a series, it will probably be written similar to this. I tend to be a fan of introspection, after all. I am not convinced William is anywhere near as coldhearted as he acts around everyone. I also don't believe Grell would be one to slack on her paperwork. I just don't. I imagine Grell to be a perfectionist in her own quixotic way. And, besides, she probably does her paper work to stay on Will's good side. (As you can see, I use female pronouns for Grell. It doesn't come up in this fic, but if I write anything with her in it, that's how I'm going to do it.)

William nibbled at the top of his fountain pen, scanning the death reports due later today but paying them very little mind. Instead, Will focused on the familiar, dull sound of his teeth clinking against the golden writing utensil gifted to him many decades ago. He grasped the pen between his pointer finger and thumb, pressing it ever so delicately past his lips and teeth to caress the ornate surface with his tongue. Will savored the sharp scrape of the raised design. The uppermost tip of it seemed like an odd appendage for a pen to have – thin, flat, and perfectly round – like a coin balanced expertly atop a finger. He bit the stem under the stamp-like component, tugging the pen forward against the backs of his teeth. Will’s fingers seemed to act of their own accord, pulling more forcefully on the utensil than he meant to. The sufficiently trapped crown of the pen chinking against his incisors made a noise akin to a small, dense object being deposited on ceramic. He was too engrossed in his thoughts, though, to fully appreciate the wind chime-esque quality of the sound.

Grinding his teeth on writing implements was a comforting, if appalling, habit William had entertained as long as he could remember. It was one of those nervous inclinations most people were persuaded to abandon during early childhood, since improper practices such as trying to consume inedible items tend to provoke social repercussions. However, Will was far too resolute to put an end to his fixation and too high-strung to ever properly undertake such a feat in the first place. Not to mention that renouncing his nibbling probably wouldn’t improve his companion prospects anyway. William had always been a solitary soul. Partially because most people didn’t find him amiable enough and somewhat because he just preferred to be alone.

But all rules have their exception, don’t they?

Will continued to trace the golden embellishments with his tongue. The twirling and coiling swirls reminded him of someone. Surging and rolling forth, unfurling anew at every edge, the curves of the pen, although fixed, somehow didn’t seem static at all. He knew every line by heart. He had stroked the gilding with the whorls of his fingertips, grated the raised edges between his teeth, and slicked every divot and valley with his tongue countless times. Yet, although each individual element was as recognizable to him as his own body, the phenomenon in its totality, each detail of the ornamentation’s magnificence pummeling every facet of his overstimulated nervous system in perfect, exquisite harmony and compelling all the hairs on the back of his neck to blindly stretch outward, fumbling for something sturdy to cling to, physical evidence of bliss on the verge of agony– well that, that, was a heavenly enigma Will never wanted to solve. Some proceedings were better experienced than understood. And so were some people.

William’s gift was encrusted with hand-cut rubies dark as sin, nothing like those fake glass ones fancy noblewomen wore to parties. Those were almost scarlet, like the blood that trickles to the surface of a child’s pricked finger. These were an intense, unfettered claret, the color of a demon’s blood – or a reaper’s. The rubies Will ran his finger along were enrapturing. He could easily get lost in their many faces, so dark and polished he could catch a glimpse of his reflection in them if he had cared any about such paltry matters. Instead he was more interested in the jewels themselves, how, even if held in the light a thousand candles, they would not be any more than opaque. Nothing like those faux rubies, translucent if regarded in the slightest amount of illumination.

At this moment, Will was transfixed by the object that lay beyond the pen, under his fingertips, a death report transcribed in voluminous, rotund manuscript. It was the brand of lettering one would expect from a teenage girl, and it was written in red ink. William grinned openly; it was not a thing he did often (and absolutely never in the presence of another living soul). The dedication was evident as he ran his hand over the fellow reaper’s words, each letter etched into the paper, visible from the other side. He touched the imprinted symbols gingerly, as if the slightest pressure would expunge them from existence – traced them in reverence, like a blind man obtaining the cure for his condition by merely outlining the words on a sheet of paper. The script was exceptional (every curlicue character curved to perfection, the kerning impeccable) but it was bothered, distraught somehow. The scattered red ink blots that normally articulated exuberance (putting William in mind of a brisk wind gusting through an otherwise tranquil poppy field) today wreaked of melancholy, so much so that even he couldn’t think of a simile for it (a habit he had acquired from the aforementioned reaper).

The little hastily drawn hearts and roses that normally littered the page were absent today.

A profound sorrow settled into Will’s insides, not in the pit of his stomach, per se, it was more like someone had sloshed his heart and lungs around in a vat of squelching sludge until they sopped up the mire and he was wholly suffused with it. Will had never been good at communicating his emotions because he tended to drown in them before he had a chance to verbalize what he was feeling. Now was not one of those occasions.

William rummaged around until, in the back of one of his desk drawers, he found a very old, very blank sheet of paper. It was a well-deserved sentiment never written, a “thank you” never spoken, and most importantly, an “I love you” never borne into this world. Will scribbled nine words onto the stationary and hurriedly sketched a few hearts for good measure, never pausing to ensure that they would assume the same size and shape, lest he risk losing his nerve entirely. He signed his name and neatly folded the yellowed sheet of paper in half width-wise.

Will shoved his plush office chair outwards from the mahogany escritoire. He dropped his gilded pen in the right trouser pocket (where he always kept it) and tucked his precious message in the left. William walked briskly down the hallway, glancing around to be sure no one saw him stop in front of the door at the very end of the hall.

Assuring his reputation was safe, Will bent his knees to the floor, as if repenting at a temple altar, and unknowingly slipped a universe of potential under the door marked simply: “Grell Sutcliff”.

 

This is the pen that I sort of used for reference. It is from the 1800s, which is approximately when this is set.:


End file.
